


What If We Would Stay?

by strangeallure



Series: Wait to Watch Us Fall [3]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Ballroom Dancing, F/M, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Lost Love, What-If, canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-11-27 07:32:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18191609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Canon-divergent from 1x14 "The War Without, The War Within".She should be over him by now, and by right, he should be over her, too. But there’s something primal inside her that doesn’t want them to be. A tight grip holding on to the thread binding them together, believing it’s a bond built to last, one that doesn’t run, doesn’t slip.Takes place afterWait to Watch Us FallandYour Voice Still Sounds Like Home, but can be read independently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I commissioned a surprise Ashburn piece from the talented [sutefudraws](http://sutefudraws.tumblr.com), who decided to draw them ballroom dancing and thus inspired me to write this story.
> 
> Beautiful art [here](http://drstrangewillseeyounow.tumblr.com/post/183616189381/what-if-we-would-stay-strangeallure-star).
> 
> Thanks to my beta, Frangipani, who's been with this from the beginning.

Where is he? Where’s Ash?

Michael’s eyes search the opulent ballroom, brimming with people from across two quadrants. Not just Federation species, but allies old and new. The spacious hall bursting with colors and fabrics and traditional finery from an abundance of cultures. A multitude of bodies fill the space with graceful movements, animate chatter and sounds of enjoyment. 

This is the first Federation Ball that Klingon emissaries have been invited to. Not as members, of course, but as guests of honor. A way for the Federation to show they hold no grudges, that the peace treaty is more than the declaration of a stalemate. They want diplomatic relations with the Empire to thaw further, improve to the point where the Klingons will be reliable allies.

As the only Federation-Klingon liaison, it was only logical that Ash would be here. Not that Michael’s had to guess. She’s been keeping tabs on him, as limited as information from inside the Empire might be.

All night, she’s been sneaking glances at him, her eyes cutting away whenever his movements indicated that he might turn to look in her direction. She’s been avoiding him, even as she couldn’t shake the awareness of him, a curious pull that seems to constantly orient her in spatial relation to his body.

For about half an hour, this sixth sense has failed her. Ash has been lost to the crowd. Her mouth turns dry and her heart sinks. It’s been almost a year since she’s been in the same room as him, breathed the same air. Almost six months since she last heard his voice, coming in on a forgotten frequency, a secret message from across the galaxy.

With stiff fingers, she smooths down the fabric of the ballgown Tilly talked her into. It’s such a strange thing to wear. Its tight bustier and flowing skirt not meant to be practical, just beautiful. An incredibly soft silk slip, layered with an iridescent fabric, its color gradiating from darkest blue to silver. It makes her feel self-conscious, out of her element, but pretty, too. Desirable. At least it did when she was twirling in their quarters so Tilly could see the skirt swing and shimmer.

That day, Michael had so wished for Ash to see her like this, had indulged in all kinds of fantasies about them meeting here. Her first chance to look into his eyes again and have a conversation since he left to go with L’Rell. But ever since she caught her first glimpse of him, deep in conversation with some high-ranking officers, she’s been too anxious to make it happen. Afraid of what she might see in his eyes; more afraid of what she might no longer see there.

Michael’s eyes scan through throngs of people as she makes her way to the dessert table. Her steps are a little too fast, her breaths a little too shallow, and she keeps adjusting her route to cover more ground, looking for Ash’s tall frame behind columns and in dark corners.

She should be over him by now, and by right, he should be over her, too. But there’s something primal inside her that doesn’t want them to be. A tight grip holding on to the thread binding them together, believing it’s a bond built to last, one that doesn’t run, doesn’t slip.

She’s reached the pastry station, but the abundance of smells, textures and colors hardly registers. Michael pops a bite-sized Ktarian chocolate puff into her mouth, and when its intricate flavors burst onto her tongue, she takes a moment to enjoy them. It’s a rare treat and tastes just as wonderful as the first time she’s had it. She finds herself unable to savor it fully, soon back to casting glances about the room, her senses perking up whenever she catches sight of black hair or a dark blue jacket.

All night, she’s been trying to convince herself that it would be better not to let their paths cross, preparing to tell herself a tale of unlucky circumstances and ill-fated lovers.

But now Ash is gone, out of sight and out of reach. A missed opportunity. Maybe her only chance.

Michael Burnham is many things, but she never thought of herself as a coward. Taking another pass along the mirrored wall to her left, she’s careful to steer clear of familiar faces who might want to draw her into conversation.

She should have sought Ash out instead of evading him, she thinks as she weaves her way through a group of Andorians. She’d owed it to herself, to him, to at least acknowledge the messages, thank him for sending them under such adverse conditions. She should have told him other things, too, but she can’t make herself think of them now.

A side door opens, and a gaggle of people – admirals and other dignitaries – spill into the hall. Behind a particularly broad Tellarite minister, Michael catches a flash of dark blue fabric and black hair.

It’s him.

It’s her second chance.

Without giving herself time to think, she strides towards him, ignoring the strange twitch in her muscles as she sets eyes on target, his tall frame her sole focus.

His hair is longer than before, his beard grown out. A Klingon custom during peacetime, an invocation of strength, born from tradition. Most of his hair is tied back, but some errand strands frame his face, and Michael can’t help wondering about the fuller beard, how different it would feel against her skin from the texture she can’t forget. Heat rises in her cheeks as she steps in front of him. She can’t make eye contact, can’t say his name, so she fixates on his lapel and pulls him away wordlessly.

His hand closes around hers without question. No hesitation, no resistance, only warmth.

She fortifies herself with a deep breath, lets go of his hand, and turns around.

Their gazes lock and her eyes feel too wide all of a sudden, revealing questions her lips dare not ask.

"Will you lead, please?" she asks, barely able to discern the tempo of the music over the rushing of blood in her ears.

He nods and there’s a small smile that reassures her although she can’t fully parse its meaning.

"Yeah," he breathes, his mouth not quite closing after the affirmation, leaving a tiny gap between his lips that draws her attention.

His fingers wrap around her right hand, moving up into position, and she can feel his heartbeat where they touch. He takes her left hand, gently, and positions it atop his shoulder, where he is broader, more muscular than before. In one smooth motion, both his palms slide around her waist, one cupping her hip, the other coming to rest on the small of her back as he pulls her near. Fire sparks in her belly.

They’re so close, she has to look up at him even in heels. His breath is a warm stream of air against her mouth, a tantalizing reminder, and she can feel the heat of his body across the narrow space between them.

And then they dance.

Michael has danced with several people tonight. Has all but stumbled over Saru’s long limbs and has been impressed by Stamets’ and Owosekun’s sense of rhythm. She has laughed with Tilly, too, when both of them kept trying to lead at the same time.

This is different.

At first they just listen, finding the cadence of the song, its notes charging the air with anticipation. A moment of uncertainty stretches between them. Then Ash starts moving, his steps perfectly in sync with the melody, the music a tuning fork helping their bodies align. Once they’re attuned to each other, their motions grow more natural with every note, become effortless. His hands exert minimal pressure, yet Ash guides her deftly into unfamiliar, graceful strides and even one fluid turn around her own axis.

As they sway across the dancefloor, the people around them fall away.

"You were right. You’re a really good dancer," she tells him, remembering another time when she’d felt tongue-tied, when she’d asked him one thing although she’d meant another.

He smiles, so, so soft. The shape of his mouth, the shine in his eyes – all so much like the Ash Tyler she thought she knew, open and vulnerable, not a trace of Klingon in him, and it nearly breaks her.

They haven’t danced before, not in this timeline, but they’ve kissed. They’ve done so many things that hurt to remember, that she could never wish to forget.

"I’d almost lost hope that I’d get to talk to you tonight," he says quietly. Michael’s been waiting all night to hear his voice, she realizes. It’s still the same, a bit husky, yet soft, and the yearning in it makes her shiver. Her fingers flex uselessly against his shoulder as she keeps herself from pulling him in, exploring more of that new lean muscle beneath the thick fabric of his jacket. "I tried to find you a few times, but you always seemed to slip away."

"I was avoiding you." Her tone is too factual, she realizes, must sound cold, even as the embers in her belly burn brighter. He doesn’t seem offended, though, his eyebrows lifting and his head inclining, inviting her to elaborate.

It makes her feel known, connected, makes her chest swell.

"I got your messages." It’s not what she wanted to say, but it will do. The connection between them is crackling with electricity. Maybe he’ll understand what she cannot say.

"Good." He nods. His thumb rubs barely-there circles against her hand in his, and Michael wonders if it’s intentional or a subconscious outlet for the tension rising between them. "I was worried about that." His eyes cut away. "I’m sorry I had to stop."

"Me, too." She exhales, too aware of the presence of his body, too close and not close enough. She can smell him when she breathes in, spicy yet close to floral, with an underlying familiar scent that threatens to flood her mind with memories. "I listened to them many times."

His smile deepens. "Then I’m glad I sent them."

Unsaid words crowd in her throat. If she doesn’t keep talking, all these pent-up emotions will explode into action and she will kiss him, right here and now, in front of colleagues, superiors, dignitaries. In front of the Klingon delegation.

She has to find something, anything, to say, something to lead the conversation into safe waters, away from her unchaste thoughts.

Michael smiles, trying to make it light. "I was quite impressed with your technical ingenuity."

There’s an almost-stutter in his step and his lips press into a thin line.

"It wasn’t all me." His voice comes out wrong, matching the new tautness in his shoulders. "Turns out Voq knew a lot more about improvising with discarded electronics and Orion tech than Ash Tyler."

There it is. The thing that stands between them. Michael should be appalled by his mention of Voq, should be trying to shake painful memories, but she isn’t. Instead, she’s curious – more than curious, intrigued – by the reminder of his dual nature.

She wishes she could find the words to tell him things are different now, that she knows he won’t try to hurt her again, that she’s drawn to him in spite of his dark passenger. That, maybe, being made up of disparate pieces that will never fully fit is something they share, something that could bring them closer, not tear them apart.

"Oh," is all she says.

Ash tries to laugh off his last words, but she can hear the false notes.

The song ends and the musicians take a minute, song giving way to conversation around them and silence between them. It seems like a sign.

She should let go. She will let go. Just one more second.

Her hands relax and she’s about to pull away, to leave his arms and let him disappear from her life again.

The ensemble begins playing a different tune; slower, less formal than the one they’ve been dancing to. For a second, his hold around her tightens.

"Stay." Ash’s voice is close to inaudible, its rough edge feeding the fluttering heat in the pit of her stomach. "Just one more song."

She locks eyes with him and wets her lips. "Yes."

It’s a pact, fleeting but profound. One more song, one more dance. Afterwards, they’ll part, try and leave the past behind. 

But right now, they slide together, slot into position as if from muscle memory. Both his hands find their place atop her hips, fingers splayed and grip firm, making her feel small, slight. They’re on the brink of too close, but she can’t look away, can’t deny the hunger in his eyes, can’t deny how much she’s missed him.

He’s broader, filled out, and in their new stance, she can truly appreciate it, feel the increase in bulk from the last time she held him, more solidity than she imagines almost every night as she slips a furtive hand beneath her sheets.

As he holds her tighter, his hands on her shoulder blades, his arms bracketing her, she wonders what he did to cord his muscles like that. Klingon culture values physical might above all. To take his rightful place as Torchbearer, he had to make his opponents believe he could hurt them – kill them – if they dare attack. Yet right now he’s dancing with her, light-footed and graceful.

She presses herself against his chest and can feel him draw a deep breath in response.

Thoughts of him in combat should not excite her as much as they do, should not have this strange allure, making indecent images rise in her mind, but Michael can’t help herself. She wants, wants, wants. Wants to slide her hands into his thick hair and mess it up, wants to pull him down into a rough kiss. Wants to do much dirtier things.

Beads of moisture gather along his temples and Michael can feel sweat spring up all over her own skin. His eyes tell dark secrets as their bodies sway, molded against each other in a way that’s just about inappropriate.

She has to snap out of it, tamp down on this want clawing at her belly. This is not Ash Tyler, she tells herself. It’s Voq’s body, modified to appear human. Harvested memories layered on top of a Klingon psyche; the real Ash Tyler long dead by the time she met the man whose arms are now wrapped around her.

She isn’t repulsed like she should be.

How can his touch feel so natural when it could hurt her so easily? How can they be in such perfect harmony as he sweeps her across the dancefloor?

Her logical self should be mortified, but there’s this deep, primal quantity inside of her that doesn’t just gloss over his fault lines and hard edges, but relishes them. Delights in the idea that the core of a ruthless warrior had always been there, that it’s what made him stronger, faster, more resilient. Why he beat and bested every test Lorca threw at him before appointing him chief of security.

She digs her fingertips into his shoulders, embarrassingly eager to slide down to his biceps, feel the strength there, the flex, but she holds back, trying not to let go of the last vestiges of decorum.

Ash must feel the heat coming off of her, reddening her cheeks, radiating from her chest.

Michael desperately wants to touch the skin above his collar, but she doesn’t. The fabric of their clothes is the last line of defense she has left against him. If she touches his bare skin, she can’t imagine what she would do. Her mind swims with forbidden possibilities.

His palms feel like firebrands through the fabric of her gown, making it feel flimsy, inadequate, an ineffective shield from the hot press of his hands.

She only wants more, wishes she’d listened to Tilly and had gone with a strapless dress. If she had, his palms would be flat against her shoulder blades right now, more of that delicious heat soaking into her.

She can’t pull her eyes away from his, can’t increase the distance between them when he holds on to her like this, when he bites his lower lips like this. On some level, she knows there are people around, that they’re dancing at an official function, but everything around them feels muted, his dark irises and black pupils drawing her in. It’s like falling in slow-motion, losing herself in his gaze.

Maybe it’s no coincidence that his hands do not make contact with her skin. Maybe he’s burning up, too, with how much he wants to touch her.

So why won’t he? She might feel small in his arms, delicate almost, but not breakable. No, she feels strong, fierce, his equal. Whatever he has to give, she can take it. The thought makes her heartbeat accelerate, causes a warm rush between her legs.

It should be frightening, all this raw power, palpable in the calibrated strength of his embrace, but it’s exhilarating. He could just take her, move her this way and that without breaking a sweat. Instead he keeps his strength tightly controlled, under wraps. She yearns for it, wants to feel it. Wants to make him grip her hard, lose control.

Her eyes slide shut and she swallows around the dryness in her throat. Bruises, tokens of how much he wants her, that’s what she thinks about.

She slowly becomes aware of the couples around them rearranging after a change in music, but she can’t follow their lead yet, dazed, all but drunk on his proximity, on how good he feels – and how dangerous. Inevitable.

Ash is the one to pull away this time, even as he takes her right hand in his. He looks down and says quietly, "I wish only good things for you, Michael." The way his thumb strokes over her knuckles is intimate, but his tone sounds weirdly formal. "You deserve every happiness."

He looks up at her and for a moment it’s like he’s ripped open, emotions clamoring, fighting in his gaze. In an uneven voice he says, "Thank you for dancing with me," and abruptly drops her hand.

His face is filled with guilt and regret. It feels like one of the Victorian novels Michael swiped from Amanda’s room, pretending even to herself that it was just a way to study human emotions, to understand earthly customs and history, when in reality, they had moved her close to tears.

She can’t speak, can’t even smile. Her whole body too full with energy, about to burst apart.

Before Michael can compose herself, Ash is gone.

She doesn’t see him again after that. Oh, she’s well-nigh sure she catches glimpses of him here and there, but she’s always busy and his back is always to her, so it’s just a flash of glossy dark hair obscured by the blue antlers of an Andorian politician or a quick glance of old-fashioned coattails behind the extravagant armor of a shell-faced representative.

Michael throws herself into the fray, ignoring the meaningful looks Tilly gives her, unwilling to talk about the encounter, to so much as think about it.

Instead she sips on champagne and nibbles on hors d’oeuvres, dances and fraternizes and laughs too loud. Everything to divert her thoughts from melancholy yearning, determined to enjoy herself.

This is a party, these are her friends.

Tomorrow, she’ll be back on Discovery and Ash will be on a transport to Qo’noS.

Michael’s become much better at having a good time and letting go. It’s a skill that serves her well as she loses herself in song and dance and conversation.

It’s close to midnight when Joann lets go of Michael’s hand after a final twirl, the twisted crown of her hair still impeccably in place, braided through with white and gold ribbons echoing the fabric of her wrap dress. Michael’s own hair has come loose hours ago, some of the short, slicked back curls messily spilling across her forehead.

She’s out of breath and her feet ache. A waiter with a tray of champagne flutes floats past and Michael grabs one and gulps it down. She didn’t realize she was this thirsty.

She should go up to her room, they have an early start tomorrow, but before, Michael wants to get some air, maybe catch a glimpse of the stars. She pushes open one of the wide glass doors leading out onto the veranda.

Cool air hits her heated face and there’s a hint of salt water in the air. The contrast to the various scents inside the great hall is almost disorienting, but refreshing.

A few people stand around in scattered groups, and before anyone can call her over, Michael slips along the side wall and into the gardens, away from everyone.

As she makes her way through the hedges, the din from inside the ballroom and the hushed chatter from the veranda fade away. Slowly, her ears adjust, and she picks up on the typical sounds of a summer night on earth: rustling leaves, animal noises she can’t quite identify and the hum of traffic in the distance.

After a while, the path before her opens into a small square with a large tree and a mossy stone bench. A figure sits on it, looking up at the stars.

Ash.                                                                                   

It’s not just the jacket with its old-fashioned coattails or even the unruly hair above his slender neck. It’s his posture. Quiet strength, a straight back. She imagines she can see part of his face, illuminated by moonlight, filled with wonder as he searches the skies.

Michael sits down on the opposite side of the bench, resting her hand in the space between them.

He doesn’t look over, but she’s sure he’s aware of her.

"The stars are so different here," he says finally, as if to himself. "I didn’t realize how much I missed them."

His words unearth a forgotten memory. "The first time I looked up into the night sky on Vulcan, I almost cried," she confesses. "I didn’t understand why. When my parents moved us to Doctari Alpha, I had no comparable reaction." She rarely talks about her parents, but mentioning them doesn’t sting like it usually does. "It was strange, how different it felt."

"Not so strange," he says, still not looking at her. "Humans aren’t built to go it alone. If you share change with people who know you, it becomes easier to endure." A beat. "To accept."

His face remains tilted upward, but his hand slides in her direction, not touching, not even all that close, but she can see it for what it is: a question, an invitation.

"Having you be there for me, it helped me more than I can say." There is so much warmth in his voice, so much gratitude, but it’s edged with an ache that hurts her, too, makes her throat close up.

She had wanted to help him, maybe too much. Sometimes she still wonders if they could have made it work then, but in her heart of hearts, Michael knows that they needed time apart, that _ she _ needed to work her way through without him. And maybe he had needed that space, that solitude, too.

Ash turns around, eyes seeking hers. "I’m sorry, Michael. I never meant to cause you pain." His head bobs like he wills her to believe him. "I never wanted to get better at your expense." He blinks rapidly and his pitch changes for the next words, making him sound much younger. "The person I care for the most."

Something in her chest opens, and her breathing evens out until she feels a rare sense of calm. He acknowledged the pain he caused her, he apologized. No justification, only remorse. After so long, she didn’t even realize she still needed to hear him say it, say it out loud and in person.

"I understand," she says with quiet conviction. "I believe you."

They sit there for a long while, looking at the stars, and gradually, the energy changes between them, returns to the restless exhilaration of their dance. Michael can’t see his face, but she knows Ash feels it, too. It’s like their bodies sync up, start to resonate at the same frequency again.

Soon, the air is crackling between them, both of them generating energy fields. She can feel the static buzzing and wonders what those fields are for: Containment? Deflection? Magnetism?

If she reaches out, if she puts her hand on top of his, will she be shocked away? No, she knows better than that. She’ll be trapped then, unable to let go.

Instead of taking his hand, she slides closer, her whole body in turmoil, her heart pounding by the time the fabric of her dress whispers against his skin. He tears his gaze from the dark skies and focuses it on her. Electromagnetic, no doubt.

His body turns towards her, the expression on his face so raw and open it hurts deep down in her lungs, makes it hard to breath.

He smiles, beautiful and vulnerable.

"I don’t think I said it earlier," his tone is a poor imitation of casual, "but that’s a really pretty dress."

It’s her turn to smile. "Tilly helped me find it."

He swallows, his hands balling into fists as he leans in. "Like the night sky was transformed into silk and wrapped itself around you."

It’s poetic, the way he phrases it. She’s reminded of that Klingon custom he mentioned in one of his messages: male Klingons reciting poetry during their mating ritual. A thrill runs through her. Is that what this is? Does she want it to be?

She’s so close to him now, too close to retreat, so she reaches out, taking both his hands in hers.

It’s not the shock, the discharge of electric energy she expects it to be when they touch. Instead, it’s familiar, even though they barely had time to do this before. What’s also familiar is the heat that soaks into her from where they touch, that seems to call to the warm knot in her belly, her lap. He has to feel it, he must.

Slowly, carefully, Ash bridges the space between them, his face tilting sideways and his eyes open.

"Can I, Michael?"  He wets his lips. "Please."

She meets him halfway. The kiss is tentative at first, like they’re both afraid to break the spell, make the moment fragment and shatter. Soft presses of lips and careful licks of tongue make a strange counterpoint to the arousal building inside her, simmering within her bones, boiling her marrow.

His hands disentangle themselves from hers, stroking along the thin skin of her inner wrists as they do, slowly traveling up both her arms, soft, symmetric touches across bare skin. His palms curve around her shoulders, fingers traveling, caressing, sliding across her collarbones. Finally, his hands move upward, cupping her neck and-

A jolt of memory.

_ His hands around her throat. _

She stills, blood in her veins running cold.

Ash pulls away, distress twisting his features.

"Michael," there’s pain in his voice, guilt, "I didn’t mean to, I-"

He tries to get up, but she tugs him back down, instinct overriding the alarms in her head, urging her not to let him go.

Her hands find the pulse points in his neck, pulling his head towards hers, even pressure as she leans in. She slides her fingers up into his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it to yank him all the way in.

There’s nothing tentative about this kiss. It’s raw, punishing, with too much teeth and tongue.

She pulls away, just an inch, hands still gripping his hair. Her breaths come out ragged, like she’s surfacing.

"Like this," she pants against his lips, tightening her hold before she dives back in.

His mouth is hungry like she is, and soon his hands roam her face, tracing the shape of her bones, her ears, her hairline.

His hands were softer before, so much softer. Now she feels calluses and welts. Scars, too. Different textures tempting against her skin. Training, exercise, fights. On Qo’noS, he must have to constantly prove himself. To survive, persist in a place that sees humans as weak, he must be fighting all the time.

Just the thought of him in combat makes her mouth water and her skin tingle. All that strength under unforgiving Klingon armor. She has a flash of vision, clear as recollection, of him sweaty and dirty, hair plastered against his temples, falling into his eyes. Breathing heavy, bend over his opponent. Victorious.

"My room’s upstairs," she gasps between kisses.

They rise to their feet, but Ash doesn’t let go of her, barely seems able to tear his mouth away from her long enough for a throaty, "Lead the way."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first draft of this in January, but editing took a lot longer than expected. I'm quite pleased with how it turned out, and I hope you enjoy it, too! As always, comments are very much appreciated ♥

They can barely keep their hands off each other as they leave the gardens. Ash’s palm hot on her hip, arm shielding her back, Michael’s own body molding itself into his side. Stopping, again and again, for one more kiss, one more chance to taste each other, even as they try to hurry, impatience making them stumble a time or two.

The constant need to touch him, to assure herself that she can, that his body is finally right next to hers, makes her skin prickle. Between them the air hums with excess energy. Another fierce kiss, the warm wetness of his mouth pushing into hers. His fingers tracing the lines of her body through her dress, thrumming across her rib cage like it’s his favorite instrument. No reservations, no holding back how much he wants her, his desire evident in the way his body wraps around hers, in the thrilling exploration of his hands.

Michael’s giddy with feelings and sensations, as if the fizziness of the champagne she’s had earlier is bubbling inside of her, like she’s drunk on his kisses, on a contact high from his touch.

As they approach the building – _the real world_ , something notes in the back of her mind –, they begin to disentangle, leaving a few inches of space between them. Ash’s hand is still in hers, though, a comforting warm weight. In the corner of her eye, Michael sees him straighten his jacket and smooth down his beard and hair, bringing a semblance of order to the disheveled state she’s left him in. His actions light a spark of self-consciousness inside her, and Michael tries to flatten her own hair, running her open hand over her mouth and chin and down her neck, like his lips might have left traces on her skin she’s trying to rub off.

She guides him towards the back entrance, bypassing the veranda and the revelers there. A boisterous laugh rings through the cooling night air, and they startle away from each other, their hands sliding apart just as they reach the building.

By the time they’re inside the elevator, everything feels off. The light is too bright, the air too sterile. The two women riding with them are laughing and whispering in the too-loud voices of intoxication, constantly touching each other’s shoulders and wrists, picking imaginary lint from the other’s hair and clothes.

Meanwhile, Michael can’t even look at Ash, the distance between them opening up into a chasm, almost like they’re strangers. And maybe, after twelve months without contact, a whole year without a single conversation, they are.

The elevator opens on Michael’s floor, and when the couple makes no move to follow them out into the corridor, Michael breathes a small sigh of relief. They don’t need an audience. What they need is privacy, time alone to find their way, make themselves fit again.

She strides towards her room, tamping down the doubt roiling inside her. They’re still not talking, not touching, but she knows Ash is behind her, his presence an undeniable heat against her back.

In front of her door, she stills.

Memories rise up like flood tide. The last time they were alone together. His quarters on Discovery, Ash asleep in her arms. Michael working so hard to stay calm, to not hyperventilate, not panic and run. Finding no rest, no sleep. His body like an anchor, dead weight dragging her under. Over and over again that same vision: his hands around her neck, his eyes filled with rage. Him trying to kill her, avenge the death of his Lord.

_What has she been thinking? Why should it be different now?_

She takes a deep breath, steels her nerves and calms her breathing.

_Because neither of them is the same._

Because one year ago, Ash left for Qo’noS to be torchbearer to L’Rells mother chancellor. But that wasn’t the true reason. Michael always knew he had left for her, _because_ of her. Giving her space to breathe, to rest and heal.

And she has. She has grown so much this past year, has become stronger, surer of herself. She’s never stopped feeling connected to him, though, tethered. His messages, his earlier words, the way his eyes and body seem constantly drawn towards her, they’re signals, signs that he feels the same.

Michael thumbprints the door open and turns around.

Ash’s eyes are on her, the shape of his mouth forced into a smile, only accentuating the turmoil in his eyes.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea …” His Adam’s apple bops as he swallows.

Intuitively, Michael knows this is about her. The physical connection between them, that irrefutable magnetism, remains, and she’s sure he wants her, but he’s scared.

So he’s giving her an out, an opportunity to change her mind. Generosity of spirit. That’s one of the things she was always most attracted to about him. She never felt pressure to act on her feelings, but always felt like she had room to do so.

The knot of uncertainty that has started to gather inside her settles.

Michael takes Ash’s hand and leads him through the door. She doesn’t turn on the lights, leaving the room full of shadows and moonlight.

Her hand cups his cheek, palm against the thick hair of his beard, fingers touching warm skin over bone. His heart beats against her fingertips and even in the dimness, she finds a curious mix of doubt and longing in his eyes. She leans in slowly and presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth, breathing in a scent that’s always felt familiar, then slides over his lower lip, a little chapped yet soft, sucking lightly, her tongue flicking out to tease along the seam of his mouth. Her own heart beats louder and louder, an insistent throb in her lips and wrists, rumbling in her ears. Tension builds within her muscles, accumulates.

_Is this like before? Did she lie to herself? Is this pressure, this thrum of restless energy, about to turn into panic?_

Ash whimpers, a helpless sound that makes heat lick up her spine. There’s movement against the skirt of her dress, like his hands are shifting, like he wants to touch her but won’t allow himself to.

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t let her in. Instead he turns his head away, lets out a sharp, hot exhale against her cheekbone. “Are you sure, Michael?” His voice is hoarse. “I need you to be sure.”

A surge of power runs through her, and she feels herself clench around nothing. No, this isn’t panic, she realizes, it’s anticipation, the kind of uncertainty that makes her head spin, not with fear, but with possibility.

He’s tall and big and strong, has been holding his own among warriors. Proving himself, his might and mettle, every single day. The mere fact that he’s here now is proof of that. And yet she’s the one who can make him tremble. The one whose assurance he needs.

“I want you,” she says, moving her mouth to the shell of his ear, feeling the hot gust of her own breath against his skin. “I know you want me, too.” Her words reverberate with thrilling certainty.

“I do.” There’s desperation in his voice, his body swaying towards her as if compelled by the same inevitable pull she feels low in her belly.

The kisses start slow, soft and easy, but edged by a current that sends sparks through her nervous system, minuscule shocks that make her hunger for him grow.

She needs more – more pressure, more ferocity, needs to lose herself in sensation. Maybe she’s sublimating her own doubts, trying to drown out any lingering fear, memories of how he hurt her, but she can’t think about that now, can’t focus on anything outside of that deep, carnal hunger.

Pushing him up against the wall, her hands start roaming over his shirt and jacket. Always coming back to his neck, his jaw, the sides of his face. Fingers gripping at his temples, tugging him down as her body arches up into his, craving friction, craving his touch.

Her heels make her tall enough for the hard ridge of him to press right at the junction of her thighs, a near-perfect fit, evidence of how much he wants her, even as his kisses and caresses remain too light, too tentative. Like she’s fragile.

She isn’t. She can hold her own. He needs to know that.

Michael presses in harder, adding teeth to her kisses and nails to her touches, moving her hips in a tight instinctual rhythm that only knows _more-more-more_. Her chest heaves, rubbing her breasts against his torso, making her nipples peak through layers of fabric.

He yields to her mouth and hands and body, willing recipient of all she has to give. She wants more. More purpose, more aggression, needs him to give as good as he gets.

A nip at his tongue, hard enough to hurt, make him groan.

“Let go,” she pants into his mouth. “I want to feel how desperate you are for me, how needy.” A strangled sound catches deep in his throat, and she pulls away just enough to meet his hooded gaze. “Don’t hold back.”

“Michael,” his hands on her hips clench, like he wants to draw her close and push her away at the same time. “I can’t-“

She clasps her fingers over his mouth, fixing his eyes with hers. “Don’t.” The dark decisiveness in her own voice excites her, makes her feel powerful and in charge. “I decide for myself. And I want it all.” His eyes widen. “Everything.”

Her hand drops down.

“Everything?” he asks, his voice rough, expression ripped open.

Her pulse is a booming echo inside her bones, her whole body throbbing with its accelerated rhythm. “Everything.”

It’s the answer he needs. His hands are on her in an instant, grabbing at her ass, her waist, turning them around, shoving her up against the door.

His mouth eats at her lips and jaw in turn, too voracious to be called kissing, his one hand wrestling with the flowing skirt of her dress, desperate to get underneath, unwilling to let go of her and coordinate the action. When he finally manages to bunch the material high around her waist, his hand loses no time, going straight for her sex, cupping it through her underwear.

Her blood pumps hot and insistent, spurred on by the rolling motion of his fingers. His middle finger is in the perfect spot, pressing deeper, nudging the fabric and her own flesh against her opening, making her push forward and into him.

“Can I?” he asks, his fingers flexing, voice guttural.

“Rip it off.” She doesn’t recognize the darkness in her own voice, a soot-smeared purr that wants to give much filthier commands.

His mouth crashes into hers and his big, spread hand grasps the material, two fingers thrusting into her entrance through the fabric. As his hand curls, the elastic of her underwear is pulled too taut, cutting into the flesh between her thighs and bottom, into her belly. One swift yank and the material rips, elastic snapping, slapping against her skin.

 _So strong._ She’s drunk on the thought.

His thumb strums across the nub of her clit, soft touch with calloused skin. She wants to press into the movement, mold herself around it, but she makes herself still. Micro-contractions run through her, shudders that bend her body, bare her neck to him.

Both but neither. Distinct but bound up. That’s what he is. That’s what she wants, what she relates to. The old Ash Tyler is gone, but so is Voq. He’s an amalgamation, a puzzle of broken parts that can never fully fit. Like her.

She wants him with a fierceness, an intensity that would scare her if she weren’t so caught up in it, if every single cell in her body weren’t calling out to him, begging to be claimed. _Pon Farr._ Blood fever.

How she had wanted it to happen to her, too. How she had despised her classmates for whom it was inevitable. Another sign that she didn’t belong, that she was human, weak, captive of her baser urges. Never fully in control, never fully consumed. Now her instincts are a violent undertow, dragging her deep and deeper into her own desire, flooding every nerve-ending with undeniable currents.

Soon Ash’s hips press between her thighs, making them splay, spreading her open. He’s still wearing his full suit, the soft fabric of his slacks and stiff line of his zipper rubbing against her, the bulge of him nudging forward. It turns her on beyond belief, more warm heat rushing to greet him. She arches, pushes her pelvis up and into him, needing to feel more of him, feel the size of him, how hard he is for her.

His one hand digs into the flesh of her ass, holding her in place, almost on tiptoes. Her head thunks back, a too-loud noise against the door, a spike of blunt pain at the back of her skull, but she doesn’t care. Her hands tangle in his hair, force his face into the crook of her neck, where she wants him to kiss and suck and mark her. She can smell his shampoo, smells something more primal, too.

His other hand massages her breast, rough and insistent against the smooth fabric of her dress, making it feel like a cage barely able to contain her. His fingers move up to her breastbone and slide down into her neckline, a too-snug fit. Two fingers push inside her bra, calloused tips rough on her nipple, already erect. He paws at her cleavage, desperate to get her body out of its confinement. With the zipper of her dress still up, it’s awkward, clumsy, and hot as sin. How much Ash wants her, how much he can’t wait, can’t think straight.

Michael shoves his head down just as he frees her nipple, the seams of bra and neckline biting into the skin just beneath, the humidity of his breath teasing against her. His mouth closes around the tip of her breast, gentle at first, easy licks in contrast to the hair of his beard against the areola. Soft, wet suckles making her gasp, making her nipple contract to the tipping point between pain and pleasure.

Hot air from his nostrils puffs cool against her spit-slick skin, a sharp prickle. His grip on her flesh is tight, forceful, eager to expose more of her skin to his ministrations. She wraps one leg around him, her knee pushing into his ass, the heel of her shoe digging into his thigh. Michael knows he will hold her, won’t let her fall. She needs more purchase, needs to get closer, make herself spread wider around him so she can feel even more of his hardness grinding against her, get ever more pleasure from him.

Ash seems to sense what she needs, his hands tilting her pelvis forward as he positions his own hips just so, until she’s spread so wide that her clit is in direct contact with the bulge of his erection pressing in. He thrusts against her in tense circles, a delicious push-pull.

She must be making a mess of his pants with how wet she is, and Michael loves it. She can already smell herself, and the thought that he must, too, only winds her tighter, makes hot sparks race through her nervous system. He’s nibbling at her breast now, his teeth barely grazing her nipple, making her crazy.

His head pulls away. An impatient grunt escapes her and her body bends back, calling attention to her chest, offering herself up to him. His eyes find hers and their gaze locks. His lids are hooded, his pupils wide and pitch-black.

“Let me taste you again,” he says, growls, and the memory the words evoke makes her teeth bite into her lip, makes her leg around his thigh relax its hold and give him space, makes her hands find the curve of his shoulders to urge him down.

There’s a crooked, confident grin in response to her eagerness, and Ash swiftly falls to his knees, the grace in his motion a testament to the strength of his muscles and the control he has over his own body.

Within moments, one of her legs is trapped beneath his arm, the other one wedged between his knees, keeping her more modest than she’d like, confined, craving his mouth on her. Michael’s hands slide into his hair and grab at it, seeking to draw his head into her lap.

Her efforts seem to have no effect on him, his face showing no signs of the impressive resistance her grip encounters. Both his hands secure the mass of her dress around her waist, keeping her in place, the pads of his thumbs an insistent force against her pubic bone. Muscles coil and fingers cling, her breath hitching in another ineffective attempt to get his mouth where she wants it.

He cocks his head, movement fluid and easy, as if she didn’t have a tight hold on his skull, and for a moment, he just looks, drinks her in, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, the sight so lewd it makes her hips jut uselessly.

If he smiles, she’s not sure she can see it because his head bends, strands of hair falling into his eyes, and he kisses the space where her thighs meet. Michael shifts, tries to slide down against the door a little to open herself wider for him, to encourage him to deliver on his promise and taste her, but his hands keep her still as he plants more kisses, as he licks and nibbles, skirting the outline of her vulva, his cheeks close enough to rub against the curls there, but never close enough to where she really wants him. She squirms in his hands and tightens her grip around his skull, the noises he coaxes from her a mixture of arousal and impatience.

When he licks a stripe up from her thigh and along her folds, not even trying to push inside where she’s hot and aching, Michael curves her body from head to toe, gathering strength to push her hips forward into his mouth. Her success is noticeable, but limited.

“Come on,” she hears herself whine, too on edge to care how it sounds. She needs to come, needs him to get her there.

Michael thinks she feels his lips curve before he repositions their bodies, moving her around effortlessly so that her legs are soon splayed, one of her thighs draped over his shoulder, his hands on her hips there to steady her, not contain her. He licks another stripe up, but this time, she’s wide open for him and so wet that his tongue slides easily inside her.

He starts out playful, teasing her in a way that turns her on and annoys her in equal measure, drawing figure eights around her clit and opening with the tip of his tongue, sucking and licking at the contracting muscles inside her inner folds, giving her pleasure, but never enough.

She digs the heel of her shoe into his back, driving her hips forward into his ministrations, again and again, insistent, wanton. He presses in closer, his mouth finally closing around her clit, sucking hot and hard, lips and tongue, lips and tongue. His grip is almost painful, sharp pressure against the ridge of her hipbone as he moves her against his mouth in an undulating rhythm.

Distantly, she hopes she will bruise, that he’ll leave his marks on her. The thought twists something inside her tighter, a hungry current electrifying her skin, making her shift and lock her leg around his head to pull him even closer, using her hands, too, everything to get more of his mouth, more stimulus, _more-more-more_.

His attention intensifies. He sucks on her like she’s air, like he needs her to breathe, sucks so hard that she can feel the press of his teeth through the soft cushion of his lips.

She relishes the wave of sensations, the knowledge that it’s Ash who’s making every single fiber of her feel alive. Contractions start rippling through her, nipples growing taut and breath hitching. And then the coil snaps. Her hips buck wildly as her head falls back. Loud, wet puffs of air push past her lips and her skin is aflame, her system flooded with endorphins. Ash holds on a few more seconds, wrings another succession of exquisite shudders from her body, more half-formed sounds of pleasure from her throat.

He retreats with a noise, one hand still steadying her hip, the other finding her knee, gently guiding it away from his shoulder, back to the ground. Making sure she stands securely before he lets himself fall back onto the carpet.

His face is red and sweaty, telltale streaks glistening in his beard. He’s taking quick, shallow breaths and, looking up at her, he starts laughing. He looks younger this way, almost boyish, and happy.

It makes her laugh, too, takes the edge off of the embarrassment she suddenly feels.

“Sorry for almost suffocating you,” she says, her eyes cutting away, the corner of her mouth turning up in apology.

He guffaws in response, his teeth shining white crescents, his eyes flashing in amusement.

“Worth it,” he replies. His fingers run through the tangled mess of his hair, pulling off the hair tie still in there somewhere and tossing it aside carelessly.

The lightheartedness of the moment adds to the giddiness she feels. She wants to share all of her body with him, give him the kind of pleasure he just gave her, so she opens the zipper of the gown and lets it fall to the floor, pooling around her shoes, exposing her legs and midriff.

She remembers the prick of insecurity, of shame, when his hand slipped under her shirt for the first time, back on the ISS Shenzhou. His palm coming to rest on the large plane of scar tissue hugging the left side of her waist like the imprint of a large, lethal paw. An inescapable reminder of the explosion at the Vulcan Learning Center. The day she died. The day she was brought back.

He stroked it then; kissed it, too, with lips full and warm, tasting the lattice texture with his tongue. This time, Michael’s proud of it, pushing her hips forward, presenting her flaw with confidence. It’s something that links them: overcoming death and rebuilding themselves, stronger than before.

There’s reverence in his gaze as he moves closer, reaching out to trace the outline of the scar, his fingertips brushing across its expanse, barely-there touch along its minute peaks and soft ridges. He kneels in front of her to press his lips against her skin, then molds the side of his face against it, eyes sliding shut.

“It looks like spun silver,” he whispers, his warm breath gusting across her stomach, “but it feels like silk.”

That language again, akin to poetry, a window into how he sees her, thinks of her: worthy of beautiful, lyrical words. It makes something in her chest flutter.

Looking down at him, she can see the stains she made earlier, visible even on the dark material of his slacks, can see his erection still tucked away.

Michael puts her foot into his lap, shifting her weight, just a bit of pressure.

His eyes find hers and she gives a small nod. Obediently, he takes off her shoe, his thumb tracing the arch of her foot before he sets the shoe aside. He takes off the other shoe in the same manner and Michael gets rid of her bra.

She flicks her wrist, sending him scrambling against the door, his instant compliance sending a jolt through her, crackling across the surface of her skin.

He sits there, legs stretched out in front of him, his expression a mix of anticipation and deference. Michael wastes no time, straddles his hips and sinks down into a crouch. She can hear him exhale, smells the sharpness of his sweat, imagines she can taste herself on his breath. The muscles in her thighs and calves tense, her toes curling into the soft carpet as she touches her lips to his. She means it to be soft, but when he surges up against her, one hand on the expanse of her burn mark, the other on the curve of her hip, she can’t help tumbling into a rough, urgent kiss, barely mustering the presence of mind to steady herself against his shoulders.

Even through the haze of want, the renewed desire rushing through her, she doesn’t lose sight of her purpose. Without looking, without breaking their kiss, she opens his fly, an uncoordinated fumble, and slips her hand inside to feel the shape of him through his underwear. He swells further into her palm, groans into her mouth. Michael’s still in a crouch when her hips start a rolling rhythm, her need for him overtaking her body. Without finesse, she shoves his underwear down and pulls out his cock, hot and hard, straining towards her.

With her right hand, she positions him at her entrance and lowers herself down, swift and steady, her gaze drawn to his flushed face and blazing eyes. At the last possible moment, she tips over onto her knees, pelvis shifting forward, neck bending back, her lungs expelling all air in a whoosh.

Michael stills, adjusts to the stretch and fullness, the way she can feel him in and against her.

When she clenches around him, instinctive experimentation, Ash groans roughly and pushes up into her. She can feel his breath, the heat of his body, can smell him so distinctly it almost makes her dizzy. Both her palms find their way back to the fabric straining around his biceps, feeling the muscles bunching there, a testament to how he wants to move, but defers to her, lets her lead.

It’s a heady, tenuous power. He could take it from her at any moment, but she knows in her heart he won’t.

She’s giddy with it, breaking out into a broad smile even as she starts kissing him again, the roll of her hips matching the drum of his pulse beating against her lips.

Her fingers find his torso, keen and clumsy with how much she wants to expose his skin, feel its texture under her fingers. In the end she manages, button by button, bit by bit, without releasing his mouth. Beneath his shirt, there’s an expanse of flesh she has seen and felt before, but it’s different now. Used, expanded, renewed. Scars and welts are scattered on his chest, an erratic pattern across the planes of his body. So much harm done to him in such a short time. She can’t help thinking that it suits him, makes his body a better match for his mind, both branded, forever altered.

Starfleet’s too quick to remove physical scars. They’re more than damage, they’re mementoes. Vulcans are much more utilitarian in their approach, only healing what would otherwise impair function. The gauzy spread of scar tissue winding around her midriff is proof of that. Every time she undresses, it reminds Michael of the explosion at the Vulcan Learning Center. How lucky she was to have Sarek save her. How hated she was to have Vulcans resort to terrorism.

It doesn’t matter now, not with him marked in similar ways. Her equal.

The flash of an image: Ash, undressed, laid out before her. Every single mark for her to explore, intuit its meaning with her lips, her fingertips. Michael doesn’t have the patience for that now, doesn’t want to wait and be gentle. She wants to come, drown in waves of pleasure, lose herself in the way he makes her feel.

She wants to make him come, too. Hear him cry out, feel him spasm inside of her.

Guiding his hand between her thighs, she catches his lower lip between her teeth, whispers against the sensitive skin, “Make me come again.”

He babbles his assent into her mouth, barely intelligible through the heavy breaths shaking the new broadness of his chest. Then he takes some of the power back, his hand on her waist enforcing a rhythm his fingers on her clit can more easily follow.

Soon his lips drag over the column of her throat, his face burrowing into her neck. The smell of their mingled scent, sweat and arousal, is everywhere, his irregular breaths humid against her carotid artery. She can feel the reflexive way his hips jerk up – _so close, too close_ – but somehow, Ash manages to hold on, the movements of his fingers losing all skill and grace, a hard, insistent rub that speaks to something more primal.

Her second orgasm is usually gentle, a soft surf carrying her back out onto sea, but this time, it slams into her like a fist. Every single muscle contracts, making her clench so tight around him that she almost mistakes his strangled groan for pain. Not that she cares, that she can think or focus on anything else as she shudders through a violent, thought-wiping climax, her blunt fingernails digging into his flesh, leaving her own marks on him.

Finally, she collapses on top of him, no longer able to support herself.

Her chin on his shoulder, her ear against the veins in his neck. She gulps in air, breathing with her whole body in a rhythm that doesn’t quite match his.

Ash’s pulse throbs against the sensitive shell of her ear, against her chest, against her splayed thighs. It mixes with her own, a barrage of vibrating sub-sounds that slow down gradually after a big crescendo.

As they relax against each other, she becomes aware of the drying sweat gathered at the small of her back, in the crook of her knees, cooling her down. Her torso, though, the insides of her thighs and palms of her hands on his hips, they don’t cool down, staying warm with the heat radiating from him.

Michael is calm, quiet, so at ease that Ash’s strong, steady heartbeat almost drowns out her own, subsumes her. An ache asserts itself in her muscles, her thighs, her throat. It’s pleasant, makes her feel well-used, spent.

He wiggles a little and slips from her. Suddenly empty, it's like she's splayed too wide, too open, the air of the room cool against her sensitive flesh.

Thoughts rush like rapids. About the future and the past, mistakes and consequences, about being and becoming.

She wants to look him in the eyes, touch his face and take his hand. She wants to share herself with him, tell him her stories. She wants to show him the bowline that’s tucked away in her nightstand, the one memento she takes everywhere she goes.

Moments ago, she was happy, she was content. Why is she so afraid now?

Michael’s mouth feels dry and she swallows. She should drink something. She should shower.

Reluctantly, she gets up. “I’ll take a shower.” Her voice sounds strange in her own ears and she fixes her gaze onto the door handle, making Ash’s face blur at the edge of her vision.

Moonlight filters in through the window. It seems harsher than it did before, shining a light where it might be dangerous to look. Maybe she should cover herself, put some clothes on.

No. That feels pointless, cowardly even, after what they just did.

She doesn’t just feel naked, she feels laid bare as she strides towards the bathroom, breathing in the filtered air, the smell of him lingering in her airways, his taste still on her tongue. Her eyes are trained straight ahead, but she can’t help imagining his gaze on her, on the sway of her hips, the shifting muscles in her back.

 _This isn’t right._ She doesn’t want to leave him, doesn’t want to walk away.

When she turns around, Ash is still propped up against the door, slumped and debauched. His hair in complete disarray, parted into thick, untamed strands by her hands raking through it again and again, wisps of it sticking to his temples and forehead.

His shirt is open, its hem crumpling around his hips and his cock hanging out where she pulled it from his trousers. Even the jacket is still on, useless blue coattails in stark contrast to the cream-colored carpet.

His eyes are on her, and for a second, there’s a wealth of emotions on his face. Then his features rearrange. Michael’s gotten better at reading facial expressions, more attuned, but that’s not a skill she needs here. The connection she feels when she looks at him is profound, an echo – no, an amplifier – of what she feels herself. Longing and desire and possibly guilt.

It’s like staring down into a well, helpless against the hypnotic pull of the deep. But it’s not an unknown depth. It’s something she knows intensely, intimately, something she yearns for.

Ash’s throat works and his chin juts out, almost defiant. With sudden clarity, Michael knows that he’s about to get up and leave, that he’ll give her space because he’s afraid she regrets what they did.

He needs to know she doesn’t.

So she puts one foot forward and extends her hand, naked before him, but unafraid. “Would you like to join me?”

There’s an instant of confusion on his face, like he can’t make sense of her words, but then his expression clears, breaking open into a smile as he scrambles to his feet.

Ash makes a motion as if to take off his shirt and jacket together, but pauses.

“Are you sure?” An out, an escape hatch.

_Don’t do this just to make me feel better._

“Absolutely,” she says and helps him undress.

**Author's Note:**

> Like all my stories, this is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>  **Feedback** : short comments, long comments, questions, constructive criticism, "<3" as extra kudos, reader-reader interaction
> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)  
>   
>  **Author Responses** : This author replies to comments.
> 
> You can also hit me up on tumblr: [drstrangewillseeyounow](http://drstrangewillseeyounow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
